Blank Page
I have nothing to
write about
I don't mean I
can't think of anything
There is nothing
Every poem has
been written
Every song has
been sung
Every idea has
been thought
There is no room
for change
I don't have any
time
I want to invent something
But I would have
to use other inventions to do so
That doesn't seem
fair
If I could stop
time I would readjust everything
Altered states for
alternate futures
In this world,
Originality is a
crime
Those who roar the
loudest are seldom heard
They are fed to
the lions
Everything is set
And screams out to
be broken
Anyone could've
written Stairway To Heaven
But a certain
group of people did
And they deserve
their fame
No one should
profit off of others
Maybe I can fool
them into loving me
They cannot see
how empty I am
The critics point
at me and laugh
The critics are
everyone
They won't like my
new poem
But I'm proud of
it
At least it's
something I accomplished
I wasn't handed my
pride
By something I
can't control
Oh well, forget it
This was all useless
I should have left
this as a blank page...
No comments:
Post a Comment